Living In Fear
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: Missing Scene for Hounds of the Baskerville. John suffers from massive PTSD episodes upon their return from Dartmoor. COMPLETE.


**Living in Fear**

**Author:** Lady Sam Mallory

**Disclaimers:** Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

Special Thanks to my Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

**Warnings:** H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

**Spoilers:** _Hounds of the Baskerville. _

**Do not read this until you have seen the episode.**

**Author's Comments:** My beta and I were both disappointed that John let this go. They have been friends for a while now, no matter what Sherlock's razor sharp tongue says. It just didn't seem natural, so here's a missing scene that I hope fixes this oversight.

This story takes place immediately upon their return to 221B Baker Street after the events of _Hounds of the Baskerville._

* * *

John stares at the cuppa that he's been not drinking for the past hour. He looks down at his hands which tremble slightly. Closing his eyes, he crushes his fists closed in an effort to stop the unsteadiness that resides there.

He tosses the newspaper down onto Sherlock's chair disgustedly. He hasn't been able to concentrate on it anyway. John makes for the kitchen, tossing his cold tea, cup and all into the sink with a crash. "Shit," he whispers as he cleans up the broken ceramic of his favorite mug and casts it into the bin.

John trudges up the steps to his room to dress for work. He sighs deeply and plucks another jumper out of the wardrobe. Pulling it onto his unsteady frame, he then grabs his briefcase and heads toward his bedroom door. He retrieves his Sig from the pocket of his dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, pushes it into his jacket pocket and leaves the flat before Sherlock has even awakened.

* * *

"He's not right, Sherlock," Lestrade informs the oblivious detective at a crime scene that evening.

Sherlock's brows draw together bewildered, "What are you on about, Lestrade?"

"John's not right. What did you do to him?" Lestrade demands while pulling out his notebook and pen to take notes on whatever leads Sherlock finds.

"Nothing. You're disrupting my focus, Lestrade. Step out," Sherlock orders of the older detective inspector.

Lestrade turns to Sherlock on his way out the door, "Fine, but he didn't blog about your last case, you know. Maybe that's what's bothering him."

Sherlock stops his perusal of the scene of the crime, "He didn't? Hmmm. I didn't think about it."

"What do you mean 'I didn't think about it'? You read the blog, right?" Lestrade demands than huffs out an irritated breath when Sherlock answers.

"Sometimes, if I have the time," the detective remarks in a clearly preoccupied manner.

"It's bloody brilliant the way he presents your cases and makes you look somewhat likeable. _You're_ the idiot, Sherlock. If we had to live together, I'm sure that I'd pop you at least six times a day," Lestrade informs the unwitting detective before him.

Shaking his head, Lestrade rubs his neck and exits the room mumbling about self-involved idiot consulting detectives.

* * *

John sits quietly behind his desk in clinic. Everyone has left for the day, but it's quiet and he savors the silence.

His thoughts are preoccupied with the events of this last case. How could so much have gone wrong so quickly? He grabs his keys and makes for the chemist with the prescription that Sarah has given him.

He explained to her that he couldn't sleep because of nightmares about the war, but if he were truthful, at least with himself, he would admit that his experience in the lab at Baskerville has shaped his recent dreams far more blatantly.

He dreams about being trapped, of being alone, of being killed by the beast that wasn't even there. His dreams terrorize him, not because of the aforementioned, but because they always end with Sherlock tormenting him in some way. Occasionally, he's being dissected by his flatmate in the name of science.

Or worse yet, when the insurgents captured him, he was tortured for nearly a week before they let him go. In his nightmares, the insurgent torturing him always has Sherlock's face. John shakes off the image and leaves the chemist, hoping to catch a taxi to the flat.

Hailing a taxi and genuinely surprised when one actually stops quickly, he studies the driver closely before entering as has become his practice since the case of "The Study in Pink."

Murderous cabbies are not on his agenda for the evening.

* * *

John finishes his bedtime routine and returns to his room.

He picks up his gun, puts it in the pocket of his dressing gown and walks the entire flat, checking each door and window to ensure that they are indeed locked down tight for the night.

He returns to his room, removes the sleeping pills from the pocket of his trousers and dry swallows two of them.

Removing his dressing gown, John places his gun under his pillow. Crawling into bed, he prays that there will be no nightmares tonight. These terrors are different than he's ever experienced. There's nothing to fight. There's only fear.

Pure, unadulterated, unmitigated terror and, of course, there's always the guilt associated with the fact that you feel the fear.

He begins to shiver as his mind heads down this path. "No, John. This is not gonna happen. Breathe and it will be alright," he reminds himself, trying to close his eyes to rest. He hasn't really slept since their return from Dartmoor. The nightmares come too frequently and are too punishing for him to get any kind of rest.

Steadying his breathing, John rocks gently back and forth, allowing the rocking motion to soothe him slightly. He turns onto his left side to face the door, and his hand snakes under the pillow to grasp the grip of his firearm. The security of the weapon in his hand relaxes him to such a degree that he can finally close his eyes.

He sighs in overwhelming relief as he feels the sleeping aid drag him down into what he hopes is dreamless oblivion.

* * *

Five o'clock in the morning comes very early, and John dresses, grabs his gun and makes his way downstairs. He pours cola from a can into his mug in the kitchen, not caring anymore if Sherlock notices. He would miss his coffee if the thought of drinking it didn't make him violently ill.

His first day back, he put on a pot for the two of them and went to get dressed. As soon as he walked into the kitchen, the smell of the brewing coffee hit him so hard that he threw up in the sink. John tries not to think about the last cup of coffee he had and how his supposed friend betrayed him with that experiment.

He checks the windows and doors again for security, ensuring that each one is locked, before returning to the kitchen to attempt to finish his soda and toast. His appetite is shot so he pushes the plate away from him and picks up the mug.

He wishes he could get out of his head. He tries not to think about the fact that perimeter checks were standard operating procedure in Afghanistan.

He hasn't been able to stop doing them twice a day since their return from Baskerville. He tried one night, unsuccessfully, to just let the compulsion go. Lying in bed, he shook so badly that he nearly worked himself into a massive anxiety attack.

"What are you doing?" A disembodied voice asks him from the area of the sofa.

John startles dropping his mug of cola to the floor, the mug shattering into pieces.

"Bloody hell," he shouts, realizing resignedly that he has been responsible for the unfortunate death of two coffee cups in the flat this week.

Sherlock eyes his flatmate and friend with the utmost care, eyebrows raised. "I asked what you're doing. First and wrongly so, you're drinking cola from a mug at 5:09 AM. Not your usual fare. You checked all the windows and doors at 11:57 last night and again just now. Your service weapon is oddly in the pocket of your dressing gown as opposed to upstairs in its drawer in your room. Expecting company?" Sherlock asks glancing toward the door.

"Um, no…not really," John replies, pulling down another cup and pouring the remaining soda into it. His hands shake with the strain of remaining calm as he sips the soda.

Sherlock studies his friend a bit more closely.

_**Rumpled clothing**_

_**Dark circles under eyes**_

_**Underlying tremor**_

_**Elevated heart rate**_

_**Startles easily**_

_**Gun **_

_**Conclusion: John is afraid.**_

_**?**_

This entire situation has him perplexed.

_What could John be afraid of? John is rarely afraid and never paralyzed by it. _

Sherlock takes a good look at his friend once again.

"I better get ready for work," John interjects into Sherlock's thoughts pouring the rest of the soda down the drain and starting for his room.

"John?" Sherlock starts, only to be confounded by the schooled expression that appears upon John's face when he turns back towards him.

Sherlock files it into his mind palace and concentrates on the matter at hand. "Lestrade informed me that you have yet to blog about the case at Baskerville," Sherlock pronounces, his eyes fixed to John's countenance.

John flinches before he can control himself. "I have no intention of blogging about Baskerville," he discloses, his heart pulsing in his ears. John turns and escapes to his room to get dressed.

After taking the stairs two at a time, he bursts through his bedroom door, closes it, locks it and leans against the back of it. He shakes uncontrollably and curses his mind and body, not for the first time, for betraying him with something as devastating as PTSD.

John tries to get it back under control, but his breathing will not cooperate. He squats down, his back still to the door, and curls in on himself covering his ears. "Not now. Not now. Not now," he chants fretfully.

There is a knock at his door, and he flies apart. His trembling intensifies as the fear responses take over. He lurches from the door into the corner across the room.

Sherlock knocks again, "John? Are you alright in there?"

Finding his voice, John hollers as normally as possible, "Fine, just trying to get ready for work." The doctor knows that he will be hard pressed to keep this at bay with Sherlock around.

"If you're sure," Sherlock's muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

John inhales deeply. "Quite," he forces out, then adds a stunted "thank you" for good measure.

Sherlock dismisses the odd behavior returning to his own room to gather clothes for the day before taking a shower. When he returns to the sitting room, he knows that John is gone.

He checks on several experiments in the kitchen before settling in his chair to think for several hours. John has been acting strangely. Grabbing up John's laptop out of sheer laziness, he enters the new password and accesses John's blog where he enters a different password altogether.

His fingers fly across the keys as he types in an update detailing the Baskerville case.

After several minutes, he smiles slightly with satisfaction, saves the new blog entry and signs off the laptop.

Unfortunately, he realizes he is bored now. He smiles unevenly as a thought occurs to him. Perhaps, Lestrade will call with a multiple homicide.

* * *

John visits with a dozen patients over the course of his shift and is completely knackered by day's end.

Sarah pokes her head in the office. "Is everything okay?" She asks quietly observing her friend.

John nods before answering, "Fine. What can I do for you?"

Sarah looks over John again, her hesitation apparent.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be okay. Now, what did you obviously not want to talk about?" John asks gently.

"I know it was a slow day…but it would be better if you update your blog on your off hours," Sarah informs him rushing to get the words out.

John's confounded expression makes her smile, then blush. "I get a text to notify me of updates to your blog," she admits, a bit embarrassed with the admission. She notices John still looks to be confused and tries to soften the blow. "Your innocently confused expression is adorable, but I checked the blog and _The H.O.U.N.D_. blog entry was added about 90 minutes ago."

"The H.O.U.N.D.?" John questions, then engages his brain as the fear tries to settle into his bones. "I was with Mrs. Jeffries 90 minutes ago. I haven't updated the blog in over a week," he acknowledges, looking at the computer on his desk.

Sarah nods her acceptance, "The blog sounded a bit off. I should have realized…"

John's head pops up at this statement and he blurts, "Realized what?"

"That you didn't write it. You've been hacked!" Sarah teases gently.

John inhales and exhales trying to keep his breathing rate steady. He can't bloody believe it. Sherlock broke into his laptop (again), invaded his privacy (again), and with complete disregard for John or his readers, updated the blog himself.

"Thanks for bringing it to my attention. Look, I really need to look into that. I've got a few more files to update, but I'll do that at home later. I've gotta go," John hastily speaks as he shoves files into his briefcase, grabs his jumper and coat, and shoves out the door.

"See you tomorrow, Sarah," he says as he retreats, his anger beginning to boil.

* * *

The flat is empty when John enters heading straight for his laptop. There is a note on it. John clenches the note in his right hand and reads it as he opens up his laptop with his left.

Sherlock's note reads: 'myflatmateisaprick. Really, John? A barely formed fetus could have guessed this password. Do try to increase the complexity of the next one. SH'

John crumples the note, throwing it at Sherlock's chair angrily. He signs on to the laptop and changes the password yet again. His anger simmers into a rolling boiling black kettle of seething ferociousness.

He brings up the blog and peruses it quickly.

**_The H.o.u.n.d._**

_The case was, of course, quite straightforward. The client approached Sherlock about a hound haunting the moor in Dartmoor. Sherlock and I drove to Dartmoor to take on the case._

"After you rejected it several times because it was too boring, and you're an arse," John scowls continuing to read.

_We followed several leads before ending up at the moor. I went off on my own and was not present for the viewing of the hound, which Sherlock assured me was quite intriguing._

"That's when I, Sherlock, the all-fucking-knowing had a nervous breakdown, and was a churlish self-absorbed wanker," John spits venomously at the screen, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage.

_Sherlock engineered an ingenious experiment by which to determine the drug's effects on an average human mind. The experiment was a complete success as it confirmed his theories perfectly. _

John huffs out a hideous laugh. "Yes, in fact it was so goddamned ingenious that my flatmate has been suffering post traumatic stress flashbacks for a bloody week and is going out of his sodding mind, but at least it was a success."

_Sherlock brilliantly deduced that we had all been drugged by an aerosolized hallucinogen._

"Of course, this brilliant deduction came after we were all dosed with the shit in the middle of the fucking moor, but no worries, mate," John corrects, his breathing labored as his anger mounts.

_We found that our client's father had been murdered 20 years ago by man rather than hound (which Sherlock also had already deduced.)_

_The murderer led us on a ridiculously fruitless chase. He then exploded in a spectacular display when he triggered a mine in an unauthorized area, thus ending the 20-year hunt for the hound that haunted our client. _

John vibrates with a rage that threatens to drown him in his own bile.

"Bloody fucking git!" John curses, glad that his flatmate is out right now for fear of what he might do to the wanker.

John stabs the keys acrimoniously as he adds his own comment after the blog.

Satisfied with his scathing comment, John re-reads it. '_Now_ you know why _I _maintain the blog. This update was written by Sherlock and my apologies, but I will update further when I have a spare moment.'

The key in the door alerts him to Sherlock's presence. Standing, he reaches the door in three long paces. As it opens he curls his left hand into a fist and does what he's been longing to do for the past week, ever since the experiment at Baskerville.

John Watson punches Sherlock Holmes in the face.

His outrage lives as a palpable being outside of himself. His breaths shorten with the exposure to violence and Sherlock, not expecting to be attacked by his flatmate upon entrance, does not even defend himself. The blow causes him to stagger and knocks him to the floor.

John looks down at the floor where Sherlock lies and then at the fist that has just put him there. His eyes widen with muted horror at the action he has just taken no matter how deserving.

He retreats to his room, locking the door, where the shaking commences. His eyes fill with the anguish of his actions. Sherlock pisses him off at least a dozen times a day, and he has never struck the man except that once, but that was different. Sherlock had actually asked him to hit him in the face and then proceeded to hit him first.

There is a knock on his bedroom door which he completely disregards.

"John? Open the door, please," Sherlock demands softly as he rattles the doorknob.

John declines to answer.

"John…I will break it down," Sherlock warns the stubborn doctor, his voice completely level and serious.

John sighs and unlocks the door, leaving it closed. He backtracks to the far corner of the room where he slides down the wall, placing the gun that is at his back on the floor between his outstretched legs.

The door opens, and Sherlock enters the room.

"Perfect," John hisses beneath his breath.

"John?" Sherlock asks questioningly.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John inquires in a small, defeated voice.

Sherlock pauses as John's tone penetrates his always-active brain. He crouches down in front of him, his blue eyes taking in every detail. They widen when he notices the gun.

"What I want is to find out what's with you, lately. Ever since returning from Dartmoor, you've been…" Sherlock begins, his agile mind searching for the appropriate words to say in this awkward situation he has found himself in.

"You're the world's only consulting detective. Deduce it for yourself," John snaps at the tall dimwitted genius.

"You are obviously disturbed by something. I am just at a loss to know what exactly that may be," Sherlock admits quietly.

John looks over at his flatmate and friend. The man, while a bloody genius, is most assuredly a complete idiot.

John sighs trying to decide where to begin. He glances over at Sherlock taking in the bloody cut and forming bruise on his angular face. He looks down at his bruised and scraped knuckles.

"Sorry 'bout that. I shouldn't have hit you like that," John apologizes bringing his stormy blue eyes to focus on Sherlock's clear ones.

"I'm sure I deserved it, at least in subtext. To be honest, I am often impressed with your remarkable restraint. According to Lestrade, I should be punched in the face half a dozen times a day for the comments that come out of my mouth," Sherlock shares the Detective Inspector's earlier commentary.

John can't help it. He smiles. He closes his eyes as the pain and anxiety inside him start to overwhelm him. His fingers gently rub the barrel of the well-kept gun sitting between his legs.

Sherlock glances down at the gun and back up at John. "Do you have immediate plans for that?" He asks, gesturing towards the gun.

John just shakes his head negatively as he's sure that he can't speak at the moment.

Sherlock nods his agreement over this very wise decision.

John looks over at Sherlock. "I don't suppose you can just walk out the door and leave me be, huh?" John inquires of the best friend he's ever had.

Sherlock's eyes brighten slightly, "I'm afraid that would be impossible as well as inadvisable at this time."

"Me too," John whispers almost too quietly for Sherlock to hear.

"You too?" Sherlock questions, then replaying that moment in the conversation, he knows exactly what John means.

"You're afraid, too," Sherlock confirms, watching John's head bob up and down in agreement.

"All the time," John hisses against his will.

Soldiers do not talk about PTSD. It's the unwritten rule. John laughs hysterically at that because of the sheer number of men and women he's treated with it. He closes his eyes wiping away the tears of his emotional outburst.

Glancing over at Sherlock, he expects to see panic or fear on the man's face, but he only sees calmness. John feels a bit jealous as his emotions are leaking all over the room.

"I know that you're afraid, but I promise I will protect you, John," Sherlock affirms, placing his long fingers over John's shorter ones.

John draws his left knee close to his chest, wraps his trembling arms around it and drops his head onto it.

"Don't believe you, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but I don't," John groans, forcing the words past the aching hole in his chest where his heart used to be. "You're my best friend, but I don't trust you."

Sherlock's head drops back into the wall, and he closes his eyes.

"The experiment," Sherlock whispers knowingly, his right hand pulling on his sharp jaw.

"It's always been so easy to trust you, because I _knew_ that no matter what, you had my back. A soldier has to be able to trust their unit. You can't survive without that trust in a war," John explains openly.

Sherlock turns from the wall to face John, placing his hand on John's knee. "It was an experiment, John. You were the only one I trusted enough to know that any results I obtained would be accurate," Sherlock elucidates hoping to make John understand his reasoning.

John just shakes his head back and forth. "I'm supposed to be your friend. You didn't ask. You just did your own thing and damn the consequences," John snaps meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"I didn't know I should," Sherlock admits.

"That's a load of shit, Sherlock. That may work on Mycroft, but don't think for one minute you can pull that shit with me. You didn't stop to think, or if you did, you didn't care, and I'm really not sure right now which one is worse," John corrects Sherlock's faulty statement resigned to his role as conscience.

"I didn't say damn the consequences. I do really want you safe. That's why I set the test up in a controlled environment. I knew I could keep you safe there," Sherlock defends his position once again.

"Do you have any idea what I've bloody been through, Sherlock? I know we don't talk about these things, but maybe it's time we should," John says openly, his voice shaking with emotion.

Sherlock inhales to respond when John cuts him off with a raised hand. "Just listen, okay? I won't be able to get this out if I don't do it all at once," John confesses to the detective.

"I spent 22 months in Afghanistan. It was hot as hell, and I spent fifteen hours a day with patients either out in the field or in field hospitals. We were under fire constantly, and there were several times I thought I was going to die.

"You already know that I was invalided, and we've talked about how I was wounded, but that wasn't even the worst experience I had there," John spills, making eye contact with Sherlock whenever he can.

John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes before he continues.

"I was captured in the field while I was trying to save some kid with a chest wound. The kid died because the insurgents overran our position, and we were screwed. Five of us were seized, but I was the only one who survived.

"I was beaten and starved, but I wouldn't give up. I have absolutely no idea why. Everyone else was dead, but I kept fighting every single day. I was rescued on the sixth day, but I couldn't understand the soldiers who retrieved me because I was too far-gone.

"I made it back, but it wasn't the same. My OC thought I was out of my mind, but he gave me a chance, and I managed to pull it together. Three weeks later, I was shot in the field and developed enteric fever. A few months after that, I was invalided home with a career killing diagnosis of PTSD, a messed up shoulder and a psychosomatic limp.

"PTSD has seriously fucked me up. It's the reason for the twice-daily perimeter checks. I can't even look at a cup of coffee without wanting to puke and actually did the first day we were back. Sodding triggers set me off and I panic. It takes every bit of my will just to make it through the day.

"The nightmares are relentless. If I sleep, it's with my Sig not just under my pillow, but actually in my sodding hand under the pillow. I spend every moment living in fear. I don't sleep, eat or think if I can help it, so you need to understand that you fucked up. If you can't get that, I know that you will _never_ have my back," John finishes.

He takes a deep breath and looks at Sherlock willing him to get it.

Sherlock's eyes close in what looks like despair, then he turns towards John.

"I'm sorry, John. As stupid as this sounds, I never once considered the PTSD. You've done so well since you've been here that I honestly didn't remember it was a problem. I can promise you that I will file it in the John Watson file of the memory palace and make every effort possible to regain your trust," Sherlock discloses honestly.

John studies Sherlock for several moments before nodding his affirmation.

"How do you feel, John?" Sherlock asks quietly of the only man he's ever considered to be his best friend.

John ponders the question before answering. "I actually feel a lot better," he admits, then glances at the black and blue bruise forming on Sherlock's right cheek and around his eye.

"We should get some ice on that," John gestures towards Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock shrugs and picks himself up off the floor. Leaning forward, he extends a hand to John to help him up as well. John peers at the steady hand in front of him and compares it to his own trembling one. He reaches forward tentatively and takes the offered hand, which closes securely around his own.

Sherlock pulls John firmly but gently to his feet and claps him on the back. "It's a start," he says with a wink and a smile, then makes his way to the kitchen with John close behind.

John takes a seat at the table, and Sherlock hands him a cold soda from the fridge. He puts the kettle on and reaches into the cabinet for the tea.

Spying the can of coffee sitting there, he grabs it out of the cabinet and strides over to the window in the sitting room.

John looks at him with confusion as he opens the window and chucks the can of coffee down several floors into Mrs. Hudson's bins.

Sherlock closes the window, business as usual, and flashes a brilliant smile at John who can't help but laugh.

"Sherlock, really," Mrs. Hudson hollers from her flat causing both men to roll with laughter.

Sherlock and John both know that the road back will be long and probably mined, but they will travel it together.

**The End**


End file.
